Summer "Did she actually ask him that?"
I turn to Sinclair in time to see his lips twitch.
"I do believe the chemistry between Saint and your st epmother is interesting, to say the least."
"He’s not the kind who’d seduce a married woman—" Sinclair shakes his head. "Not that he has many ethics...
But that’s something he steers clear of. Which is one reason I find that scene intriguing."
"You could have warned me that he remarried." I tug my arm free from his and he lets me go. His warmth recedes
and chills p epper my arm.
"So could you." He jerks his chin to my dress.
"It’s not the same thing."
"Oh?" He tilts his head, "My wife parading herself in almost next to nothing—" "This is a completely decent
dress—" "Not." He growls, taking the st eps two at a time.
I increase my pace to ke ep up with him. "Aaannd... I’m only your pretend wife," I pant.
His jaw tics and a vein bulges at his temple.
"So, you can’t really tell me what to do or wear, considering I don’t even have your ring on my finger."
Reaching the landing leading to his room, he stops, turns to peruse my features. "Is that why you’re pouting?"
I force all emotions from my features. "This is my normal resting face."
"And it’s a beautiful one, too."
"Did you pay me a compliment?"
He frowns.
"Yes. No." He drags his fingers through his hair.
"Maybe."
I go to brush past him and he stops me. "I had your belongings moved."
"Huh?"
He jerks his chin toward the closed double doors. "My suite."
"Bu... but."
"We need to put up enough of a front for people to buy into the pretense."
"No one’s gonna pry into your living quarters, are they?"
"They wouldn’t dare." He widens his stance, "Consider it a precaution. As much as I trust my staff—I wouldn’t
have them employed if I didn’t—still, I am not taking any chances until the deal is done."
"But—" He blows out a breath. "Look, Summer, you look beat and I could do with a rest, before we have to join
the guests for dinner."
I pale.
"I don’t think I can survive having to put up this pretense again today."
"Tell me about it," he mutters. The lines around his mouth seem pronounced. His hair is mussed—from standing
outside and because he’d run his hands through
the thick strands. Not that I had been watching him closely or anything.
"Can we have this conversation inside my suite?" He runs a finger around his collar as if he finds it particularly
constricting. He isn’t wearing a tie. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him in one, in the little time I’ve known
him.
He shoves open the double doors.
I hesitate.
He raises his shoulders, "Suit yourself." He disappears inside.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, grab a strand of hair and begin to chew on it. Better stop that. Don’t want him
to realize how nervous I am feeling right now. I walk toward the suite. Then st ep inside. The doors shut behind me
with a snick.
The living space is massive. Three times the size of the room I had occupied. Right. Lifestyles of the rich and
famous, huh? I walk to the massive window and peek outside.
A balcony wraps around the entire floor. On one side of the house the rolling slope of Primrose Hill extends down.
I turn the other way and the skyline of London stretches in the distance. It’s rare to get a panoramic view of the
city, considering government regulations dictate that you can’t build above a certain height. To see it here at will is
a treat.
The sound of water running in a bath reaches me. I turn, walk toward the door that leads into the bedroom. The
room sprawls out about the same size as the one I’d left behind. The pride of place is the massive king size bed that
takes up almost one wall. It’s draped in a royal blue, the sheets flowing down the sides.
Large pillows are thrown against the headboard, which is made of unembellished wood. At the foot of the bed is a
bench, on which he’s discarded his jacket.
The sound of running water grows louder. He stalks out of the bath, his shirt sleeves rolled up. I take in the veins
that run up the sides of his powerful forearms. Does the man work out? He has to, considering the shape he is in.
The light from the bath highlights the gap between his narrow waist and his forearms. His pants cling to his
powerful thigh muscles, showing off the bulge between his legs. Is that his normal resting condition? The man’s
packing all right, as I discovered from my brush with that particular muscle of his anatomy.
"If you ke ep staring at me, I’ll think you want me to exercise my husbandly duties."
My cheeks burn. I glance up at his face, to find his lips curled in that smirk that I am coming to associate with him.
Why does he have to be so overpoweringly handsome, so completely sure of himself? It’s part of his appeal and
yet— it also makes me want to say something to show him I am not affected by him. Liar.
"Where do I sle ep?"
He glances past me.
"But there’s only one bed—" "Which is wide enough for the two of us to sle ep without touching each other all
night.
I chew on my lower lip.
"Trust me." He looks me up and down, "I am acquainted with what you have under that dress, and while I’d love
to shag you, I promise you I am not that hard up."
"That’s not what it looked like when you finger fucked me in the conference room."
"There was a reason for doing that."
The video.
He prowls past me, walks toward another door at the far end and shoves it open. He glances back, "I ran a bath for
you."
The hell? I walk to the bathroom door and peek inside.
It’s a beautiful bright space, wide enough to run the length of the bedroom and the living room, a sunken tub takes
up a large portion of one entire wall. Beyond that, huge
windows open out to let the sunlight inside. To the other side are twin sinks. Piles of folded towels, soap bottles,
other bottles of various sizes and colors grace one of the sinks.
I pivot around and he drawls, "You’re welcome, by the way."
"You had to go and spoil it by saying that?"
He leans his hip against doorway to the walk-in closet.
"Ah, but that’s the point. You’re still trying to find something nice about me, when really, every single move of
mine is calculated to ensure that I get closer to my goal."
"Your revenge, your empire, that’s all that matters."
He folds his arms across that broad chest, "Is there anything else?"
"Obviously, The Wolf of Wall Street, took lessons from you."
"Actually, it was Gordon fucking Gekko." He smirks.
"This entire thing is a freakin' joke for you, huh?"
"On the contrary." His smile switches off, "I’ve never been more serious about anything else in my life."
A nerve throbs at his temple. His gaze intensifies.
My breath hitches, my pulse pounds, and liquid heat curls between my legs. I don’t realize I’ve taken a st ep
forward, until he straightens.
He nods toward the bath, "Rest up, Bird, you’re going to need it."